it felt as though i was growing into myself. looking inside a glass motel. the further the rooms were from me, the better i understood misunderstanding. i showed everyone what i saw from my perspective, and no less than a single person that i couldn't. everyone seeing this view could not believe a world with such complicated visions.
such as the visions were, i was.
it seemed everyone i showed this motel to would interrupt something different. their words, like music, grew through me like an empty wound. their words would exit forceful and rigorous like bullet movements through flesh. after each interpretation was presented to me, i was affected by their thoughts, affected by each word slipping out of their mouths. they became my drugs, and for months i rented; room after room, view upon view.
i suffered for many weeks in thoughts that ate at me and became familiar, like re-runs after late night. thoughts recycled then re-washed.
years of my life wasted in tricking myself into thinking that i can live life without pain.
in that thought alone i fell as stuck-on jam from the top of the jar, or lava lamps making their dance. fell through these thoughts that i have been fighting for the last year and five months. to break me out of my destructive course i hear a knock on my door. i cannot hide, they see me. my guilt and lack of sociability was starving to have a conversation, deep inside.
i have always been able to escape through their music, through all their perspectives. finding hiding places in all the meanings that are not my own. i built a life on the adventures, stories, and lives of others, while waiting in a room. it seems, in my mind, that i lose the ability to communicate when i have conversations with myself.
every once in a while they come back to check on me.
so as i begin to actually speak when they visit, listeners can't say if i am right or wrong. i leave too much there; i have so much to tell them after they tell me how they feel. i slaughter the pig of my dreams while they watch and listen to each of my words. every syllable sounds like pulling the legs from the animal's socket. all the breaths i take to supply me with a constant air flow for speech, like bag pipes, reminds most people of a cleaver chopping through bone. their approach is always considerate and clean, short and sweet.
people listen to me differently when they hear my stories. when they hear i did something abnormal. when they hear what i see through these walls.
i push the story until there is no more i can say in fact or fabrication. until all my rhymes sound well-rehearsed yet unintentional on command. my stories are as impossible in sequence and combination of events as the motel i am living in, but they both exist.
i try to tell myself ground-breaking thoughts, a mix of gore with a valiant plight to seek truth. i say my normal "hello" and regurgitate painstaking "good-bye" after "good-bye".
why does "normal" even exist? is it on account of the fact that we collectively have a semi-average gestation? even more to look into, do we have "normal" 'cause we're all laid to rest at the end of our days?
commonly called "life".
there is nothing normal about anybody, the more i am hearing the songs people sing to me. an ant bite, to me, feels good. it does not mean i was bit in the same place as anyone else. it certainly does not mean that it hit the same nerves, if any. also, it positively will never come to: i was in the same mood as anyone else bitten.
are we afraid to be alone? so we made a caste that HAS to exist 'cause no one wants to be alone. they figured this entire living thing out, then put an antiqued tongue to smith a word.
there are three hundred million normal places i could have lived.